A REASON TO LOVE
“What’s gotten into you?” George asked, startled to see Alice packing her suitcase. “What’s going on?”
Alice slowly trailed her fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf—the ones he’d dismissively called “sentimental nonsense.”
“Do you remember when you promised to teach me about wine?”
“So?”
“Exactly. Nothing,” she replied curtly, tossing the flat key onto the table. “As usual.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it!” he protested. “I’ve just been busy.”
“And I, George, have a life of my own. I’m tired of waiting for you to take part in it.”
Alice had always dreamed of love as it was written in novels—meeting someone and, in an instant, knowing he was *the one*. A whirlwind of emotion, hearts beating as one, tenderness, care, and that elusive “chemistry.” And if there were troubles, they would come from the outside, never between them.
“Darling, love at first sight only happens in fairy tales,” her mother had once said softly. “In real life, love needs a reason. More than one, really.”
Alice had scoffed. “A *reason*? That’s not love, Mum—that’s calculation!”
“People only love kittens and babies without reason. But even a kitten, you’d want to train if it kept ruining your slippers. And a man? You’d want someone who cares for you, someone you can rely on. Handsome eyes are a fine start, but what comes after?”
Her mother had been right. But Alice hadn’t understood then.
She searched for her ideal, ignoring those who stood close—until one evening in her favourite café, a new bartender appeared. Tall, brown-eyed, with a voice like velvet. That first night, when he poured her a glass of wine and spoke of dark cherry and vanilla notes, her heart leapt.
She fell for him. Deeply. Permanently—or so she’d thought.
“He’s different,” she insisted to her friend. “Talented, passionate—not like the others.”
“He’s a bartender, Alice. An ordinary one. And far too pleased with himself.”
But Alice wouldn’t listen. Not when he acted rudely at dinner with her parents. Not when, after months without work, he spent his first paycheck on a guitar instead of covering rent. Not even when she took on two jobs to keep them afloat while he wasted hours gaming.
She endured. She believed. Because with him came that thrilling rush—passion, desire, the promise of something magical.
But the magic didn’t last. George turned out to be the sort who gave nothing back. He wanted love without effort—to be fed, comforted, adored—while living only for himself. Free. Untethered. Answering to no one.
Now, Alice packed in silence. Rain tapped against the window. Inside, she felt hollow.
She remembered the receipt she’d kept in her purse for a year—from their first date. He’d promised it was just the beginning. Turned out, it was the end.
“I was wrong,” she said aloud, to no one. “I mistook desire for love. Now I know—only those who deserve it are loved for nothing.”
When she returned to her parents, her mother simply nodded.
“About time. Welcome back, grown daughter. Now you understand—love isn’t butterflies in your stomach. It’s being seen. Heard. Valued. And giving the same in return.”
Alice sat at the kitchen table, pouring herself tea—hot, strong, undiluted by excuses—for the first time in years. And for the first time in years, she felt at peace.
Sometimes, to love properly, you must first learn who isn’t worth loving at all.
